


I look at you, and I sigh

by SaveErenCorps



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Established Relationship, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, Fluff, Intimacy, M/M, cottage, face - Freeform, family lunch
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-08
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 03:55:34
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,938
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27458359
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SaveErenCorps/pseuds/SaveErenCorps
Summary: In a little cottage in English coutry side, England and France, spend a normal day in early spring.
Relationships: England/France (Hetalia)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 32





	I look at you, and I sigh

The sun filtered through the thin curtains that covered the windows of the bedroom and its rays illuminated the warm and soft bed. A tangle of blankets and sheets was the sight someone would see if they could peek into that second-floor room of a small cottage in the London countryside. The room itself was in good order, but the bed looked like a bird's nest as yet inexperienced. Inside this tangle was England who was trying to fall asleep again, after being awakened by the sun and his fairy friends fluttering with their delicate wings. It wasn't exhausted, but he didn't want to get out of bed; it was so warm and so comfortable, how could he get up?

He opened his green eyes slightly and looked around. It was now past 10 a.m., the sun was already high in the sky. He could hear the birds outside humming a thousand different melodies in magical harmony. There was no one next to him in the bed and the door was left open. He could certainly sleep another five minutes, no one would tell him anything. He closed his eyes and tried to go back to sleep again. But after a short time, he was awakened by the sweet scent of breakfast. When he opened his eyes, he found a wooden tray with a perfect English breakfast: eggs, beans, mushrooms, toast, butter, there was also his favourite tea with two sugar cubes and two roses in a jar: one red, the other white.

“Always exaggerating”. He commented looking up at the door, where he found France looking at him. He wore a simple, slightly low-cut shirt and soft, but elegant trousers, and an apron was untouched by dirt.

“I would say more 'An eye for details'”. He walked over to the bed and sat on the opposite side of the double bed. England looked at him once again. His blond hair was pulled back into a ponytail, even though some tufts fell across his face. “Come on, what are you waiting for to eat?”.

“Don't rush me, stupid frog”. He began to eat breakfast made by France, while he looked at him sweetly. “So, why breakfast in bed?”.

“What? Since when can I, the love of your life, make you breakfast in bed without the need for a special occasion?”. He answered in his usual dramatic tone. England rolled his eyes, but he wasn't bored with his behaviour. “Plus, I want to keep you away from the kitchen. I invited America and Canada to lunch and I don't want you to ruin everything”. He continued touching England’s nose with the tip of his index finger.

England wrinkled his nose like a bunny, according to France, and he watched the French-man go swaying his hips out of the room. If he had to compare him to some animal, he would have said a goose, for his way of swaying of his hips, or a rooster because of his haughty attitude, but he certainly couldn't deny that he loved him. They had known each other for millennia, for centuries they cared for each other and for years they loved each other. He smiled at the thought that he had been so blind that he didn’t notice his feelings for France and that he reciprocated. How could he only think that someone like France could fall in love with a spirited one like him. He decided to brush off those thoughts and finish breakfast, he couldn't ruin that day with his brooding.

That breakfast was really good, even better than usual for France. He wanted to taste it, like everything France cooked, after all, he didn't always have the opportunity to eat what he cooked. They didn’t live together: each had their own home and their own duties, they certainly could not waste time crossing the English Channel and they had preferred this way, but every now and then they went to visit each other, for a week or two.

After breakfast, he began to prepare himself like a true gentleman: he washed his face, brushed his teeth, tried to fix his hair as best he could and shaved, even putting on aftershave. At first, he didn't use it that much, but he didn't want to hear France's complaints on the subject. He could already hear him complaining and babbling about the importance of a nice well cared beard. After finishing all the personal hygiene, he moved on to clothes. He decided to put on his usual clothes: a white shirt, a brown knitted vest, black trousers, cotton socks and leather shoes. Now he was ready for the day.

He took the tray where breakfast had been served and went downstairs. It wasn't very big for a house, but it was perfect for him and his regular guest. He had chosen it after the end of the war and only when he was completely in shape, he moved there. He was fed up with all the mess that comes with dealing with state’s issues and had decided to get away from the city, returning to his real home, the countryside of England. Sure, he also had a small apartment in London for when he had to work, but his real home was there, in that little cottage in the middle of the London countryside. It was two-story with few rooms other than those needed, but it was comfortable even in winter.

He went down the stairs and to the kitchen where he found his lover at the stove. The kitchen was very small, but efficient for what it needed to cook, even if only France used it. He had to admit, with great regret, that he didn’t know how to cook at all and every time, if he ate decently, it was thanks to the French-man who prepared the food for him. The only things he didn't spoil were the tea, coffee, and jam. He didn’t yet understand how, but he was very successful with the jams that were highly appreciated both by his neighbours and by other nations, even if they didn’t know it was made by him, otherwise they would never have eaten it.

Without saying a word, he placed the silverware in the ceramic sink and the tray between the shelves, then sat down at the table where his newspaper was specially arranged in its place.

He was very routine and by now France had learned all: He looked briefly at the first page and then opened to the first news that seemed most interesting to him. Then, after finding an article, he would cross his left leg and read. And, always while he was reading, France loved to interrupt him with some affective gesture of his, the same that annoyed England. He didn't make a big deal out of it, but, as usual, he muttered to himself as his cheeks turned in to a tender pink. This time France had decided to touch the base of his hair and his straw-coloured wisps. A shiver ran down England's back and blushed.

“Your hair has really grown since the last time. Do you want me to cut them later?”. He asked innocently, while going back to the stove, even though they both knew he did it to annoy him.

“As you want”. England tone was grumpy trying to resume reading the paper, failing miserably. He was looking at France out of the corner of his eye and what he was doing. He realized only at that moment that his lover had tied his hair with a blue ribbon, the English-man loved it when he put the ribbon, he didn't know why but it gave it such a gentle touch. He stared at him for a while, in the time he cooked at the stove, when the other's blue eyes met his greens.

France didn’t seem to expect it and gasped on the spot, but then relax and looked at him too. Yes, England didn’t know how a man so handsome, kind and caring could have fallen in love with a grumpy and obnoxious man like him. His blue eyes expressed boundless love as they looked at him softly and his lips had curled into a small smile.

They were interrupted by the sound of the bell: the guests had arrived.

England cleared his throat with a cough, blushing: “I’ll get the door”. He got up, putting the newspaper on the table, and when he was on this way, Francia stop him kissing him on the lips. It was a sweet and chaste kiss, but still full of passion, suddenly stolen, one of those that France loved so much to do. England blushed even more when they parted and walked away grumbling to himself, while the other chuckled at his reaction. Yes, he too loved him.

Arriving at the door he found his guests waiting for him. “Dude, it took you to open the door!”.

“Good afternoon to you too America, thank goodness I taught you good manners”. He answered leaning against the door jamb. They hadn't changed after all those years, neither of those two. America wore a white t-shirt with a red, a grey jacket over it and a pair of jeans with sneakers; while Canada wore a red flannel shirt with a white t-shirt underneath and jeans with sneakers. America had his usual grin, while Canada had a gentle smile. Yes, they hadn't changed since they were under his wings. Those looks and smiles here was like then.

“Hey, but since when you can smile?”. America asked pointing to the slightly accentuated smile that had formed thinking back to those times gone by.

“For the record, I always smile and I was just thinking about how cute you were when you were little. Canada continues to have that charm, but you have really ruined yourself growing up”.

“Hey!”. America replied as Canada was trying to hide his laugh, unsuccessfully. It was at that moment that France arrived.

“Bienvenue chéris”. He welcomed them by embracing them and kissing their cheeks. “How was the trip? I hope you are not tired. Lunch will be ready soon, in the meantime you can set the table outside, it's such a beautiful day out side, isn't mon lapin?”. He turned to the English-man and he couldn't help but blush, also because the other two were laughing at his pet name.

“Yes, okay. I show you where the table is and I bring you the equipment”. England passed down the back street and watched France smile. That frog had done it on purpose.

The back, the garden, was his little treasure, and he took great care of it. Now that spring was at its peak, many of its flowers had bloomed creating a magical riot of colour, and it was like being in some impressionist painting. But his greatest joy was his beautiful Tudor roses, a jewel also recognized by the rose competition of the neighbourhood.

It didn't take long to set the table with the help of the twins; they could easily lift the wooden table and carry it from the shed to the courtyard, sometimes he forgot how strong they were both. The table was best set with a tablecloth embroidered by him and iron cutlery, as he didn’t want to spoil the good service. Shortly after setting the table, France arrived with lunch prepared. He had made a series of savoury crêpes of various flavours: with vegetables, cheeses, meat and even with bacon for America. They ate quietly and to their fill, talking to each other about this and that. England didn’t mind too much both lunch and the company of the two boys in front of him: it looked like a family reunited for the weekend and it was peaceful.

“I'm really full!”. Canada sighed at the end of the lunch.

“What a pity, I even made a cake”.

“Really France? What are you waiting for to bring it to the table?”. America asked, rising from his chair.

“You are the usual glutton. Did you present how many crepes you ate? If you don't stop it, you will become a ball”.

“Speak for yourself! Can't you see how fit I am?”. He answered England, showing his biceps. Meanwhile, the English-man too had risen and grabbed America's protruding belly, who responded with an annoyed moan.

“And what are those? Muscles?”. And while the two still argued, Canada laughed at England action.

In all of this, France was back with a beautiful, freshly baked tart. Everyone turned to look at it for the scent it gave off: the slightly golden shortcrust pastry formed perfect chess pieces from where you could see a beautiful strawberry jam. Everyone gasped.

“Wow France you really outdid yourself!”. Canada marvelled at him with his large violet eyes.

“It's a simple tart”. The French-man replied smiling amiably and blushing at the always welcome compliment.

“It is also very good!”. America compliment, who had taken a slice in the meantime.

“Idiot!”. England took him back with a hit on his head. “You have to wait for him to give it to you and for everyone to sit down”.

“Don't be so strict with him, get it on”. France called him in a calm tone, while the two served each other. “I understand his fury, after all, who wouldn't want to taste a tart with such a good jam made by England?”. England blushed again, he had to stop teasing him like that. Meanwhile the two guests were gaping at him. Now it was inevitable, they would make fun of him.

“Did you really make the jam by yourself?”. Canada asked incredulously.

England sighed. “Yes, I'm not that good, I know, but it's not inedible either”.

“Wow Pops, but it's delicious!”. America exclaimed enthusiastically by taking another slice. “That is, it is much tastier than I thought!”.

“Why have you never told us that you make such good jams? Can I take a jar or two to eat them together with pancakes, I'm sure Gilbert would like them too”. Canada went on to take another slice too.

England was amazed. Was it really that good? He had simply boiled some fruit with sugar, nothing more, and yet it turned out so well? Looking up he saw the smile of France. It was as if he were saying to him: “see, you're good at something too”. He smiled too, after all it was the first time anyone had complimented him on something he had cooked.

The evening continued amid chatter and laughter, until Canada and America had to leave for their hotel in town. They had to pack up for the trip to Germany's house to spend an evening with Prussia and Danmark. England cleared up and washed the dishes, France deserved some rest after he had cooked all day. When he finished, he found him in the armchair reading a book. England walked over to him and leaned back on the back’s armchair with his hands.

“What are you reading?”.

“Poems”. He replied not looking up from the book.

“Whose are they?”.

“Try to guess”. Delicate his fingers leafed through the pages in search of a poem until he seemed satisfied.

“ _Wine comes in at the mouth_

_And love comes in at the eye;_

_That’s all we shall know for truth_

_Before we grow old and die._

_I lift the glass to my mouth,_

_I look at you, and I sigh”_.

When he finished reading the poem, he raised his head and looked at England with his blue eyes. He too began to look at him: his blond hair, no longer tied, fell gently on the backrest tickling his hands, his well-groomed beard stood out even more his well-sculpted face, his soft lips formed a small smile and his eyes sparkled like lapis lazuli. He was always lost in those deep, sweet, loving eyes.

“The poem is A Drinking Song by William Butler Yeats”. He answered, moving to sit in the next armchair. Their knees touched. England read Jane Eyre again and they spent the afternoon like this: reading and holding hands. The French-man moved his thumb in circular motions on his back, it was relaxing. When dinner time came, they ate together, facing each other with their feet touching. There wasn't much in the fridge and so they ate a chicken salad. After dinner, they went to the bathroom together.

Francis cut his hair, as he had asked. His delicate fingers touched his hair and his neck with delicacy and a certain sensuality, and all his muscles relaxed at the sound of the scissors and hearing Francis humming. As soon as they finished, they also bathed together in the tub. England leaned against France's chest, as if to be embraced. The water was warm, but his chest, as he rose and fell for his breath, was warm and his hair almost tickled him.

“Arthur”. He called him France after a while they were in the tub in silence.

“Francis?”. He turned to see his face. He had blushed slightly, perhaps from the warmth of the water, but there seemed to be another reason written in his eyes.

“Je t'aime”. He said softly.

“I love you too”.

They kissed tenderly as Francis hugged him. Even if they didn't say it often, they both knew that they loved each other deeply and even a little touch expressed their whole feeling. It didn't take big expressions, even just a compliment, a touch or a tease was enough for Arthur and Francis to understand the love one felt for the other.


End file.
